


story

by tsunderestorm



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:15:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22336897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsunderestorm/pseuds/tsunderestorm
Summary: Mercedes tells Sylvain a ghost story.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Mercedes von Martritz
Comments: 4
Kudos: 45





	story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlushingTeddybear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlushingTeddybear/gifts).



> I asked for prompts on my [twitter](twitter.com/tsunderestorm) and Ramen asked for sylvain/mercedes and the prompt “both going to grab the same thing and touching hands, then making eye contact”. Thank you!
> 
> Oh, and the referenced self harm and suicide is brief and not directly related to Sylvain or Mercedes.

Sylvain couldn’t sleep, so he found himself in the monastery library, searching for a book to cure his restlessness. Scanning the shelves, it’s easy enough to rule some things out - starting with the books full of lovingly-recorded hymns to Seiros. Moving on, he’d heard enough of Fodlan’s history and its noble lineages to last him three lifetimes over, so that section was out. This library was so sanitized, anyway. He still wasn’t finished with his History of Sreng book, so, the pitifully small shelf with books in foreign languages or about other countries was out. He glazed over the books about Crests too, and the shelves of books about art ( _Cave Paintings of Northern Faerghus_ , _Portraiture of the Empire_ , so on and so forth) and went for the bookcases on the second floor - the small selection of fiction that escaped Seteth’s watchful eyes. 

Mercedes, however, knew exactly what she was after. One of her favorites, a book of ghost stories that she never got tired of reading, filled with specters haunting the halls of homes in which they had been wronged, vengeful warriors possessing swords fallen into the hands of people who’d never meant to wield them, mages whose enchantments led to spiritual infestations of an alarming magnitude. She knew exactly where it would be on the shelf, right next to the collection of stories about Kyphon and Loog unless Ashe had borrowed it _again…_

A book on the shelf caught Sylvain’s eye - nestled between a book about Kyphon and Loog and the far left end of the bookcase, with nothing on its spine. That alone was intriguing, in a “don’t judge a book by its cover” kind of way and sure, why not? Anything was free game when he couldn’t sleep, especially something he _probably_ hadn’t read before, and he reached for it...

Their hands touched as they both went to take it, and Sylvain’s head jerked up expecting one of the teachers (or worse, Seteth) and came face to face with none other than Mercedes, eyes wide in surprise and pretty lips parted as she yelped.

“Miss Mercedes,” Sylvain cooed, retracting his hand and crossing it at his waist to dip into a flourishing bow. “If such a beautiful lady as yourself had her eye on this book, far be it from _me_ to dream of taking it away from you!”

Mercedes sighed and shook her head, pulling the book free from its spot on the shelf. Her (honestly _adorable_ ) dimples vanished and her mouth turned down in a frown as she chided, “Sylvain… I thought we talked about this… I don’t need or want all of that!”

Sylvain laughed, because it was a way to break the tension that her calling out his antics had created. Geez, Mercedes was something else. She had this unique ability to make him feel… he didn’t even know. Not small, or stupid, but just… naked, for lack of a better term. Stripped of all of his bravado just because she looked at him with disapproval for two seconds. Because she saw through him, and actually wanted to keep looking. 

“Sorry,” he laughed. “Old habits and all!”

There was her smile again, and honestly? It was no wonder she had such a natural aptitude for faith, when those full lips turned up into a smile could probably cure any ill. “That’s better,” she praised. “Did you really want this book?”

“Nah,” he shook his head and added, “I can’t sleep, but I can’t focus enough to read anything with actual substance. I was kind of hoping for something without any substance to bore me to sleep, if we’re being honest.” No substance. He was good at that. Goddess, if Mercedes were a meaner lady, she’d probably say something about that. Fuck, why did she make him feel like his tongue was all tied up in knots? She was beautiful, sure, but that wasn’t normally a problem… maybe because she was older? 

“What kinds of books do you normally read, Sylvain?” Mercedes asked, writing her name down on a ledger and tucking the book into her arm.

“Oh, I’ll read just about anything, really. I love romance novels… there’s a few of them here that Seteth hasn’t caught yet, but I have a pretty sizeable collection at home. These old novels with these really steamy scenes… knights who aren’t so chivalrous and ladies who _definitely_ don’t save it for marriage, if you know what I mean! But I’ll read anything. I’m reading a book on the culture and traditions of Sreng right now, actually? But the last one I finished was... a book of poetry, I think?”

“Do you like ghost stories?” she asked, brandishing the book she’d borrowed. _Ah_ , Sylvain realized. Probably a good thing she’d gotten that one, then. “I love them!”

Sylvain lied before he could stop himself, as easy as breathing. “Sure! Love ‘em. Who doesn’t?”

(Sylvain hated ghosts. The Gautier Castle was full of them, darting in and out of unused rooms, wandering the halls at night. There was the woman in black with a delicate lace collar almost obscuring the seam of a sword’s slice on her neck, the woman who’d never wanted the marriage she’d been lucky to secure but had given the Gautiers three healthy children… none of whom, regrettably, inherited the Crest. She’d paid for that grievous sin with her life. 

There was the Gautier heir with the slashed-open wrists; a rare sight, ever so often haunting the bedroom he’d lived with his arranged wife before he’d taken his life out of loneliness after they’d banished his lover back to the territory he’d run away from. 

There was the man with the lance-shaped cavern through his chest, the woman with half of her face cleaved off, and the boy who could have been him, in another life - the one who had come to Sylvain the night they pulled him out of the well and told him that he had been lucky - he hadn’t been. 

And now, he guessed, there was Miklan, who had died in a ruined tower far from Gautier, but if any ghost was stubborn enough to find its way back to a place he hadn’t even died in _just_ to haunt him, it was the brother whose love he just hadn’t been able to gain.)

“You’d really lie to me?” Mercedes asked. _Fuck_. She must have seen it on his face. “I want to talk to Sylvain, not the Sylvain that you assume I want based on what little you know about me!”

“You caught me. I’m just tired of sad stories, I guess,” Sylvain said. “I wouldn’t mind ghost stories if they weren’t so sad. I grew up on these ones from northern Faerghus and they’re so depressing, always abandoned lovers or murdered kids. It gets old, I guess, when the world is already so ugly. Look at me… guess I’m not as cynical as I thought!”

Mercedes brightened, tucking her skirt beneath her and sitting down on the floor against one of the bookcases. She patted the ground next to her and Sylvain followed suit, sitting down cross-legged and setting the candle on the ground in front of them. It would be kind of romantic, if she wasn’t holding a book of ghost stories and the candle casting shadows on her face was a little softer, but still… good company was good company. She opened the book and ran one fingertip down its contents, sighing when she’d parsed it all.

“None of these are happy… “ 

Sylvain dared to rest his head on her shoulder, and she turned to rest her cheek against his head, humming happily, he guessed, at the closeness. 

“You’re really soothing, you know that?” Sylvain said, smiling as Mercedes rested her hand on his knee, setting the book beside her and cuddling in close. 

“Hmm… a happy ghost story. That would be good for both of us! There was one I heard long ago… from a very, very far off land!”

“I’m all ears, Miss Mercie,” he said, and actually meant it. 

“It goes like this: There was a husband and a wife who were very poor from his poor financial choices, and he wanted more… and the beautiful young woman next door! He sought to better his position, and so he put poison in his wife’s face cream. Every night, he’d watch as she sat in front of the old, cloudy mirror to apply her face cream, thinking the most awful, vile thoughts. The poison disfigured her, and when she discovered what her cruel husband had done, she ended her own life with a curse of his name on her lips!”

“... how is this happy?” Sylvain laughed nervously, lifting his head to look up at her incredulously. “Unless we have, uh… _way_ different ideas of ‘happy’. Did you trick me? Did I get taken in by that gorgeous smile and those soft eyes?”

“Sylvain… are you going to let me tell the story?“ Mercedes teased, but she continued. “She was furious! She returned as a ghost, but instead of taking her immediate revenge, she decided to trick him! She haunted his possessions. Was that her face he saw in the mirror of his new wife’s vanity table? He couldn’t be sure. Had the robe of his dead wife’s that he’d sold to a traveling merchant somehow ended back up in her closet? No, she must have just had one similar! That lantern that lit up the room where he bathed - how was the flame flickering when there was no wind to snuff it?”

“Soon, the cruel, murderous husband retreated to a secluded shack, high-up in the mountains. But still, his wife’s ghost followed him! She poisoned his dreams and haunted his waking hours, and soon he was driven to madness...”

Sylvain laughed. “I don’t think if I’d call it _happy_ , but it’s sure better than all the ones I’ve read. You’re a good storyteller, Mercedes.”

Mercedes kissed the top of Sylvain’s head. “I thought you would think it was happy because a wrong was righted… hmm. Either way, you’re a surprisingly good listener!”

**Author's Note:**

> The story Mercedes tells Sylvain is (loosely) the tale of Oiwa, a famous Japanese yokai. It is obviously a fractured interpretation, as for the sake of storytelling, I wanted it to read more as a story she probably heard by word of mouth and is remembering parts of... like a game of telephone. There are inconsistencies here and I highly recommend the numerous interpretations of the Oiwa story if you’re interested!
> 
> Seriously, if Fodlan is Europe, where’s the rest of the world? What I’m saying is: it’s totally plausible for a Japanese ghost story to make its way into Fodlan.


End file.
